


Testing Day- Logan

by parallelmonsoon



Series: Classification Verse [2]
Category: Sanders Sides (Web Series)
Genre: Ableism, Autistic Logic | Logan Sanders, Classification AU, Gen, Human Sides (Sanders Sides), Sensory Meltdown, Stimming, class prejudice, supportive parents
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-03
Updated: 2019-11-03
Packaged: 2021-01-21 04:16:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,304
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21293489
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/parallelmonsoon/pseuds/parallelmonsoon
Summary: Part of the classification AU verse.Logan has always known who he is...and who he is not.Today is testing day.  The day students receive the label that identifies their primary drive.  Caregiver.  Dominant.  Little.  Submissive.  Only...Logan is pretty sure none of those apply.  He thinks he might be something else.  Something different.The problem is he's not the one who gets to make that call.(Next chapter of Five Squared should be out soon.  I wanted to explore more of the world and the characters by doing a testing day fic for each one)
Series: Classification Verse [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1534997
Comments: 21
Kudos: 200





	Testing Day- Logan

**Author's Note:**

> Human AU based on a world where people are sorted into various 'classifications' determined by their reaction to stress and their primary instinctive drive. In a stressful situation Caregivers will attempt to protect and care for others. Doms will attempt to take control over the situation. Subs will give up control and follow others. Neutrals are unpredictable and seem to lack a single overwhelming drive. Littles are prone to involuntary age regression.
> 
> All classifications have legal rights and protections, but have different social expectations and carry their own stereotypes. A person may also have a secondary classification (such as Caregiver primary/Dom secondary.) Some classes are more common then others. People receive their classification in high school after a period of testing and observation. Your class is considered to be rigid and unchanging, and acting in a manner outside your class can bring negative attention.
> 
> (Will have a combination of different types of relationships ranging from platonic to sexual and various combinations of characters in those relationships. There is no sex involved during regression.)

A plastic water bottle.

A small paper cup. Inside: three pills.

The smallest was oval and had a glossy red shell. Red could be good or bad, depending. This red reminded Logan of cousin Lucy's car. A good red.

Next was a capsule. It was only a little bigger then the pill, but Logan didn't like the way it squished between his fingers. The liquid inside was green. Green like the cactus on the windowsill in his bedroom. Today was Friday; Friday was watering day.

Something to look forward to.

The largest was a tablet. White. Not good, not bad. A nothing color. There was something embossed on one side, but it was smudged and difficult to make out.

D-S-L-E?

D-S-L-C?

Logan decided that must be it. Dominant-Submissive-Little-Caregiver. A logical deduction.

The bell rang. 8am.

Ms. Moses clapped her hands. Unnecessary. Usually the class was obnoxiously loud in the morning and needed to be shushed. Today most of the desks were empty and the ten students in Logan's group sat silent, hands folded neatly, backs straight. Attentive, now that their futures were about to be decided.

“Good luck, everyone!” A silly thing to say. There was nothing unlucky or lucky about classification testing. You were what you were. “Listen to the testing instructor. I'll see you all soon.”

No one turned to watch her leave. The instructor moved to the front of the room. Logan found it difficult to estimate ages, but he thought she was an older woman. Short, stocky, with dark hair worn in a bun. She wore a suit...navy blue or black.

It didn't matter which. Both were bad colors.

The instructor folded her arms over her chest.

She did not speak.

She did not introduce herself. Did not ask the students their names or consult the logbook. Simply stood (in Ms. Moses' place, and it made Logan uncomfortable) as the moments ticked by.

8:10. Some of the students were starting to whisper, a low, worried murmur. The instructor did not smile. She did not frown. Her face was very still. Logan found it restful, but he understood the others would consider it discomforting.

8:17. Maya raised her hand.

“Excuse me...when does the test start?”

The instructor ignored her. Maya lowered her hand.

Did she not realize it had already begun?

They were lucky, Logan knew. In generations past the testing had been charitably described as brutal. One's class was determined by one's response to stress.

...and so stress had to be applied.

But even in this kinder, gentler age, he knew the day would not be an easy one. Their teachers and counselors had been observing them for years, noting their reactions to schoolyard tiffs and failed quizzes (Logan had much experience with the former, none with the later.) This final confirmation would require something more extreme then the usual cliched teenage angst.

And of course the protocol was never the same twice. Logan had spent a frustrating week attempting to research the matter before accepting defeat. He had to admit it was an effective tactic.

After all, what was more stressful then the unknown?

8:29. Dominic had started to cry. Ayana stretched her arm awkwardly across the aisle and took his hand.

8:41. Scotty rose to his feet and slammed his hand down on the desk. The sudden shock of it made Logan and several others jump. “Listen, lady. We...”

“**Sit**. **Down**.”

Scotty sat.

8:47.

“You will now take the Classification medication.” The instructor's tone had gone from stern to calm and quiet. “Be sure to finish all of the water that has been provided for you.”

It was a proprietary blend, Logan knew. He had been unable to learn more then the name of the manufacturer.

(Proprietary. A good word, with a solid taste.)

Logan swallowed the first two pills easily enough. It took three tries and a fair amount of gagging to force down the third. Swallowing pills had always been difficult for him, but Ms. Moses had been adamant that there was no liquid alternative.

The tablet left a chalky residence on his fingers. Their belongings had been confiscated at the beginning of the day, leaving Logan without his tissues and hand sanitizer. After a moment of jittery indecision he used the back of his tie to wipe it away.

The rustle of paper cups. The quaffing of water. (It made Logan feel queasy to hear it. **Moist**. A terrible word for a terrible sound. He could barely tolerate his own mouth sounds, let alone the reverberating **gulp** of nine other students.)

And then silence again. The instructor made a slow circuit, checking each cup. She did not look any of them in the eye.

9:12. Logan thought he was starting to feel something but couldn't be sure. The placebo effect was a powerful thing.

9:23.

His mouth was dry. His heart was pounding.

This was why classification testing no longer need to involve the more...punitive...methods of the past. Pharmaceutical advances had made it possible to stimulate the adrenal glands, tricking the body into fight or flight mode without an immediate threat.

An artificial adrenaline dump. And though Logan understood what was happening, he couldn't deny how his hands were shaking or how his breath came quick and stuttering.

The door was thrown open.

Everything happened quickly after that. Too quickly for Logan to look at the clock. Men swarmed into the room. There might have been five or a dozen, all dominants. Barking orders, shouting at them to stand, to move, to **go go go. **

A confusing rush through the halls. Into the gym.

And there, in the center of the scuffed vinyl floor. A cluttered heap , a mishmash of pipes and blocks and oversized gears.

The men in their dark uniforms retreated back through the double doors. Logan heard an unfamiliar rattle and assumed it was the lock being engaged.

Only the instructor remained. She stood beside a wheeled blackboard. On it was a diagram of...something. Something large and complex, with no clear function that Logan could decipher. .

The instructor tapped the board with her fist. “Begin. You have three hours.”

Logan looked around. No clock, of course. The inability to keep track would only add to their sense of urgency.

There were questions. Demands for more information, for the instructor to do her job and **instruct**.

Silence.

The group had been huddled near the doors. Now they drifted over in little clusters, eyeing the jumble as if a predatory beast might lurk within. Red-faced, trembling. Pushed into panic, and Logan felt an unfamiliar sympathy.

It all seemed so **unnecessary**.

“What do we **do**?” Micheal asked the room at large. He was trembling so hard his teeth were chattering. Wringing his hands, shifting from foot to foot.

“We'll start with the base.” Scotty, of course. “Mike, help me lift this. Maya...”

“No,” Jenny said. She stepped up, squaring off. Fantastic. Logan could see how this would play out and he was already bored by it. “We should start by sorting the pieces. Mike...”

The most annoying part was that both ideas were reasonable enough. If they would just work together...

Logan bypassed the arguing pair and took a closer look at the blackboard. The gearbox was intriguing. He started separating out the components, starting with the pegboard.

From there he decided to utilize Jenny's strategy and match up the gears. It only took a few minutes for Logan to lose himself in his task. Creating categories and subcategories. Larger gears here, smaller there. Subtle differences in the spacing of the teeth. Bad colors, good colors.

He was aware of the argument that raged across the way. Micheal sobbing as he tried to obey conflicting demands. Scotty shouting. Jenny's colder fury. Jaxyn begging them both to stop scaring the others

He was aware of such things, but only dimly. It was soothing work. Pattern recognition, and on any other day Logan would have enjoyed it.

Except he could feel his heart fluttering. A thrum, and now and then it seemed to skip a beat. An odd sensation, more disconcerting then painful. He found himself dropping things, hands made clumsy with an anxiety he felt but did not **feel**. Now more then ever Logan's mind seemed disconnected, his body a thing of distant impulses. Misfiring nerves, surging hormones. Just so much meat and juices.

('_Moist_', he thought, and shuddered.)

He wondered idly how many students suffered permanent repercussions from the testing. All medications came with some degree of risk. Allergic reactions, complications from underlying health conditions.

How many suffered heart attacks? Strokes?

How many died?

Logan set another gear into place. Tested the motion, nodding his head in approval when the mechanism turned smoothly.

A tug on his shirt.

It startled him, and Dominic whined when Logan pulled away with a violent twist.

“Oh, hello.” Where was Ayanna? Or Jaxyn?

Ah. Ayanna was attempting to placate a weeping Maya. Jaxyn was hugging his sister, who looked to have regressed to quite a young age.

(Placate. Another good word. He liked the roundness of it, the pop of the p and the hard stop of the c.)

“Would you like to help me?” he asked.

Dominic stared up with wide, solemn eyes and nodded. Logan stretched out and dragged a few of the smaller pipes and blocks out of the pile. He was surprised to see the others had made some progress. There was a semblance of a structure starting to form, though it looked rather lopsided and none-too-steady.

A quick inspection to ensure there were no sharp edges. “Here we are...can you build me something with these?”

Dominic accepted two of the blocks...

...and promptly rammed them together, making cheerful vroom vroom noises under his breath. Logan huffed a laugh and turned back to his own project, keeping track of the other boy from the corner of his eye.

He knew many would find it surprising. Could not fathom that rigid, severe Logan could enjoy the company of children and littles.

And yes, they were chaotic and noisy, best in small doses. But kids...kids were easy. They said what they meant. They weren't offended by Logan's bluntness or put off by his quirks.   
  
Their needs were simple. If they were hungry, you fed them. If they were wet, you changed them. If they were frightened and lonely, surrounded by teens playing more dominant-than-thou...you offered company and a distraction.

More gears, more pegs, more rods. Logan hummed, feeling more settled despite the bounding of his pulse. Knowing the source of the pseudo-agitation made it easier to tolerate. His mouth twitched when Dominic picked up the fractured melody, singing along in a mix of baby babble and random, simplistic rhymes.

It seemed so pointless, putting someone like Dominic through the rigors of testing. Inefficient, and very nearly cruel. Almost all children had periods of regression, but the majority outgrew it by the onset of puberty. By their freshman year it had been clear to all that Dominic was a little. It was, as Logan's fellow students would say, a no brainer.

Or consider Ayanna. So clearly a caregiver. Maya and Michael, submissives. Or Scotty and Jenny...surely there was no question as to **their** class.

There were a few who were less obvious. Logan suspected that Jaxyn was a caregiver with low dominant tendencies. His twin, Neveah, was also a caregiver but who occasionally regressed...a rare combination. Rachael seemed to skew toward submission, but usually kept to herself and out of the path of the class doms.

And then there was Logan.

“You have one hour and 15 minutes remaining.” The instructor did not shout or otherwise draw their attention. Just spoke quiet and calm, a serene sort of indifference.

A collective groan went up. “What happens if we don't finish?” Michael asked.

“You fail.”

Panic and pandemonium. Logan shook his head. It had not escaped him that the instructor had not cited any consequences for said failure. Very likely it was impossible to succeed. The plans were either incomplete or not enough time had been allotted even in ideal circumstances.

Failure, he suspected, was the **point**.

“You.”

Scotty stood with his hands on his hips. Chest out, head high. “You,” he said again, punctuating it with a snap of his fingers. “Come help.”

Logan shifted through the red pile until he found the next gear.

“I am helping,” he said as he settled it in place.

Another snap, and Logan wasn't a dog to be brought to heel. “**Listen**.” Unfortunately for Scotty his voice hadn't fully dropped yet and what was meant to be a growl was more of a squeak. “You have to do what I say. And stop doing that!”

Logan hadn't even noticed he was stimming, swaying back and forth in time with his humming. He paused, curious if the movement was helping to dispel the jittery energy imposed by the medication.

Yes. It most definitely was. Logan let himself fall back into the rhythm of it, adding a little shimmy to his shoulders and a twist of his wrists.

“No, thank you,” he said in answer to both of Scotty's commands.

The other teen stomped his foot. Stepped closer, fists clenched, so that he towered over Logan. Dominic whimpered, scooting closer and burying his face against Logan's side.

“Scotty.” Eye contact had never been Logan's forte, but he knew dropping his gaze would only escalate things. He settled for staring just over Scotty's left shoulder instead. Spoke slowly, as calmly as the adrenaline in his system would allow. “You do not need my assistance. I can benefit the group best by continuing what I am doing.”

Scotty wasn't a bad sort, usually. There had been friction between them on occasion...group projects, when Scotty's need for control clashed against Logan's perfectionism, had always been a bit of a trial. But he wasn't a bully, never called Logan a freak or pushed him in the halls. They had never been friends, but Logan had never considered them enemies either.

So it startled him when Scotty snarled. Long and low, and there was true resonance in it, a gravely undertone that made Logan's already straining heart lurch.

Scotty took another step toward them. Logan glanced at the instructor. He was confident she would step in if things became violent.

Well. Mostly confident. 80%.

At most.

But was it worth the risk to resist? There was Dominic to consider. Logan had already determined that the project itself held no meaningful function. There was little to lose by soothing Scotty and his misplaced desire for control. He made to stand...

...the tower collapsed.

Folded in on itself with a terrible, clattering crash. Someone screamed. Scotty rounded on his heels, bolting back to join Jenny in cursing and flailing. Dominic wailed, throwing his arms around Logan's neck with bruising strength.

Too much! Too much sound, too much touch, too much movement. Too much **everything**. Logan keened, tearing away from Dominic and scrabbling back.

He threw himself into rocking. Forward and back, forward and back. So fiercely that his forehead knocked against the floor. It hurt, but there was a pattern to the pain and patterns were good. Predictable.

  
Safe.

'_Andromeda_.' Another distraction. Stars and constellations. Like his stimming they had a cycle, ebbing and flowing across the night sky as the seasons changed. '_Cassiopeia. Serpens. Virgo.' _

“Time's up!”

Logan stilled. Bent low, hands clasping his ears, still feeling the vibration of his high, frantic hum in his throat. Frozen, not by panic or fear but by sudden, terrible frustration.

Unfair. All of it...unfair and unnecessary. A farce, and try as he might Logan could not find the logic in it.

The men in uniform were back. Blank-faced, pushing the students back toward the doors. Logan saw one coming his way and jolted to his feet.

“Don't touch me,” he warned. He knew he would scream if they did. Would fight, and had no illusions he would win. 

And he hated it, those moments when the world felt too close, too harsh. Scotty and his ilk sought control over others. Logan only wanted to keep control over his own body, his own mind. Hated it, but accepted it for what it was. A weakness, not a failure.

The man veered over to Dominic instead. Lifted the sobbing teen with surprising care, and Dominic curled into it. Logan followed along behind, watching the others thrash and argue until they were herded back to the classroom. It took two of them to manhandle Jenny into her seat.

There was a fresh water bottle on each desk. A fresh paper cup. Only one pill this time. Square. Yellow.

A good color, Logan decided. It meant that things were nearly over.

“Put the tablet under your tongue and let it dissolve,” the instructor said, “It will be bitter.”

It helped somehow. That sour tang. Something else to focus on instead of the prickly cactus feel of his shirt against his skin. He knew he would be oversensitive for hours yet.

Whatever the pill was, it worked quickly. Fifteen minutes, and Logan could feel his heart rate starting to slow. Half an hour, and he could breath easily again.

The instructor looked them over with a shrewd eye. Nodded to herself.

Smiled.

“Better?” she asked the room at large.

She sounded different. Soft. Consoling. Logan wasn't the only one who blinked at the change.

“You did well,” she said, “All of you.”

There was a suspended moment of confusion.

...the class erupted.

“You said...” “But...” “We failed!”

The instructor held up her hand. Waited for the protests to fade. “We were meant to,” Logan said when they did.

The instructor gave him a look he could not decipher. It made him nervous. “Correct, Mr. Cohen. There is no pass or fail...it's not that sort of test.”

There was mumbling and muttering. The instructor answered the group's questions with gentle patience.

The uniformed men were moving down the aisles. Passing out granola bars, juice, tissues. No longer foreboding, just poorly compensated state workers with cheap suits and laminated badges.

Dominic blew his nose, chuckling in embarrassment at the honk. “Then if you're done torturing us...what's next?”

“I'll be stepping out to review my notes with Mr. Ross.” That was not reassuring. The school counselor was well-meaning enough, but in Logan's opinion he was rather inept. “You'll be called back individually for an interview. Then Mr. Ross and I will have another little chat, and then you'll meet with your parents and receive your class.”

She was smiling again. Wide enough to show her teeth. They were meant to be happy, Logan thought. Reassured that all of this had been worth it.

And some of them were. Scotty was sitting tall, chin high, a perfect dom in miniature. Jenny was smirking. Ayanna and Jaxyn smiled at each other...a caregiver's smile, gentle and forgiving.

Happy that soon they would be labeled. Would be told what paths were open to them, and what paths were closed.

_Yellow_, Logan thought. It was a bad color after all.

* * *

They were taken away in alphabetical order. The twins...Jaxyn first, then Neveah. Ayanna. Jenny.

“Logan Cohen?”

Logan rose to join the instructor at the classroom door. He felt the eyes of the others who remained on his back. There had been excited chatter in the beginning, when the group had still been whole, but as they dwindled so had the prattle.

“Hey, Logan?” Dominic called.

Logan twisted to look back at the other teen. Dominic shrugged with one shoulder.

“...good luck. And you know. Thanks, or whatev. “

“It was no trouble,” Logan told him, and very much meant it. Compared to everything else, looking after the little had been almost pleasant. “Good luck to you as well.”

Empty words. There was no luck involved. You were what you were...or rather, you were what others determined you to be.

The counselor's office was far too busy for Logan's taste. Posters plastered the walls, overlapping and offering bold affirmations. Everywhere fidgets and plushies. Spilling out of bins, packed onto shelves, jumbled in the corners.

Mr. Ross stood when Logan entered and offered a hand. “I do not shake,” Logan reminded him, as he had on a dozen other occasions.

“Right, right, right.” Another chair had been squeezed in behind the desk for the instructor. It made the tight space feel even more claustrophobic. “We just have a few questions for you, my boy.”

He gestured to the instructor. Logan realized he still did not know her name. “Tell me, Mr. Cohen...how did you feel about the test today?”

Logan considered. Decided it was best to be honest.

“I did not enjoy it.”

Mr. Ross grumbled. “Now, Logan. You know...”

The instructor cut him off with a wave of her hand and a laugh. “That's fair,” she said, “Let me rephrase. What were you thinking during it?”

“...I thought it likely that the completion of the assignment was secondary to observing our stress response.”

The instructor was giving him that look again. It made him flinch, that look. Made his already too-tight skin twitch across his shoulders.

“Very astute, Mr. Cohen.” _Astute_. Logan repeated it to himself. Sharp-edged and delicious. “You made some interesting choices. With Mr. Giles, for example...have you had much experience with regression?”

“My older brother is a little. As well as several of my cousins. My mother is a caregiver and has two registered littles. My aunt...”

The instructor laughed again. “I get the idea!”

But did she? “I am not a caregiver,” Logan said, and saw both the instructor and Mr. Ross frown. “I took care of Dominic because it was the appropriate response to the situation. I wanted him to be safe, but it was a choice...not a compulsion.”

“Logan...”

  
A warning. They were allowed some input, but rejecting any of the classes outright was simply not done. But Logan knew himself. Knew who he was, and who he was not.

“Interesting,” the instructor mumbled, more to herself then anyone else. She glanced down at the file in front of her, thumbing idly through the pages. Mr. Ross cleared his throat. Logan noted with some confusion that the man looked nervous.

“I understand that you refused to help Scotty,” he said.

Logan shook his head, knowing full well what the counselor was implying.

“I am not dominant.”

Mr. Ross sighed and rolled his eyes skyward. Rubbed a hand over his face...then snapped his fingers (too sudden, too loud, pulling a startled flap from Logan.) “Right, right...of course! You refused to help Scotty because following the build design was more important.”

...did he think Logan had submitted to the blackboard?

The counselor smiled wide and pleased. Snuck a sideways glance at the instructor. Sat back, looking well satisfied and strangely relieved.

And suddenly Logan understood.

Misguided, inept, but well-meaning.

The man was trying to **help**.

“No.” Logan so wished that could be enough. “As I stated, I knew the project was ultimately meaningless. I simply thought the gearbox would be enjoyable to assemble.”

Mr. Ross was a big man. Now he sagged, chin dropping to his chest. “Ah,” he said, both acknowledgment and disappointment.

The instructor flipped through the file one last time. She nodded to herself, then stood and came around the desk.

“It was a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Cohen.” She was looking at him again. Dissecting him, as Logan had once dissected a formalin soaked earthworm. Cutting a neat line down its middle and flaying it open, innards exposed and ready to be picked apart. “Mr. Ross and I are going to have a little discussion outside. It should only take a few minutes.”

* * *

It took over an hour.

Logan could hear them arguing, just outside the door. Not the words but the tone, the hissed rise and fall, the occasional sharp rebuke. He thought if he pressed his ear to the wood he might be able to listen in.

Instead he rocked in his chair. Waited. Alone with the posters of color-filtered landscapes and frantic felines dangling from trees.

Eavesdropping would not tell anything he did not already know.

Finally, silence. Shuffling, and then a new voice. More talk. A soft knock at the door.

“I apologize for the delay.” The instructor stepped aside to let Mr. Ross renter the room. And following them both...

Logan lurched to his feet. Cried out, inarticulate and so, so relieved.

Mother.

“Hey, Lolo.” She winked at him, and he had not realized how badly he needed her until that moment. “Your papa wanted to be here, but they said only one and I won the coin toss. Did you give 'em hell?”

Words were beyond him. Logan could only rock, flapping his hands and bouncing on the balls of his feet. He realized with distant shock that he was crying.

“Logan, calm down.” Too close! Logan careened away from Mr. Ross and hit his shin against the desk with bruising force

He need not have worried. His mother was already stepping between them. 

“**Back off.” ** No dominant resonance, just a mother's protective fury. Unkind, perhaps, but it was gratifying to see Mr. Ross blanch pale and step away. “He's fine...just happy. Right, Lolo?” 

It took Logan a good few minutes to find control enough to answer. “Happy,” he parroted back when he could, and shook his whole body to prove it. 

He could not tolerate sitting again after that. He let his mother take the rickety office chair and hovered behind her, humming high and happy and content. 

“Can we hurry this along, Mrs. Watson?” his mother asked, “My son has been through a lot today and I'd like to get him home.” 

_ Home _ . A good word. 

“Very well.” Still the instructor hesitated, as if she did not quite know where to begin. 

“I am not a little,” Logan suggested. 

Something about her expression suggested he had caught her off guard. Still, the instructor recovered with some grace and conceded the point with a nod.

“It's true that Logan showed no signs of regression today, and of course that's always the easiest class to rule out. In reviewing his file I see that his previous episodes of regression were transient and rare. So yes, I do believe we can safely say that your son is not a little.” 

She looked back down at the folder. Avoiding his mother's eyes in a way she hadn't before. Hesitated again, longer this time. 

Avoidance, Logan thought. She's afraid. 

No, that seemed too strong a word for it. 

...apprehensive. She was apprehensive. 

For herself, or for Logan?

“...we did consider caregiver as a possibility,” the instructor continued, “He spent some time looking after another student in his group who regressed. I struggle to find strong evidence for it in his case file, though. Do you have any thoughts, Mrs. Cohen?” 

Logan's mother twisted enough to look up at him. “Lolo?” 

“I am not a caregiver,” Logan said. 

“Well, there you go.” His mother rolled her shoulders in a shrug. “He would know.” 

The instructor (Mrs. Watson...a fine name) merely lifted a brow. “Isla!” Mr. Ross protested, “You need to take this seriously. Logan's future is on the line.” 

“Nah, it's really not.” More sputtering. Logan hooting softly to himself, amused by the way the man flailed and went red. “But carry on. That's two down...what's next?” 

The instructor and counselor exchanged a look. Logan could not parse out what it meant, only that he did not like the way Mrs. Watson's lips pressed thin or how Mr. Ross heaved a heavy sigh. 

“I've been watching these kids since freshman year,” Mr. Ross said, “I can usually peg 'em within the first few months. You and I...we've had conversations about my concerns with Logan before. He's...different.” 

It wasn't the word itself. Logan knew that it was true...he  **was** different. He thought differently, acted differently, experienced the world differently from his peers. 

It was the  **way** in which the man said it. Logan did not like when people said one thing when they meant another. And it was clear, even to him, that by different Mr. Ross meant something closer to  _ wrong _ . 

“...excuse me?” 

Reading body language and facial expressions did not come easily to Logan. But he knew his mother, knew what it meant when she went still, when she spoke through gritted teeth. 

By the way Mr. Ross shrank back he also recognized that the figurative shit had hit the proverbial fan. “I didn't mean...!” Both hands held high, afraid of the ire of a woman some hundred pounds smaller. “It's just...” 

Another sigh. The man closed his eyes and pressed his fingertips against them. When he spoke again it was with care. 

“Logan is...complicated. We test the kids in a group because it's all about how they bounce off each other, right? You can't be a dominant without someone to control. Put a caregiver in a room alone, and you can't tell much of anything. 

…

Even Mrs. Watson was looking over at her cohort with a furrowed brow. “I have no idea what you're blathering about,” Logan's mother said, and it was a relief to know Logan was not alone in his confusion. 

“If I may.” Mrs. Watson cleared her throat. “I  **believe** that Mr. Ross is trying to explain that Logan had a rather unique response to today's test. Under duress most students feel compelled to act out their instinctive drive with their classmates. Logan interacted with his group only when directly approached.” 

“...that sounds about right,” his mother said, “Look...let me make this easier for you. Is my son a dominant?” 

The silence from across the desk seemed answer enough. Logan's mother nodded to herself. 

“Didn't think so,” she said, “So, not a dominant. Not a little, not a caregiver. So...” 

“Mrs. Cohen...” The instructor spoke slowly. Gently. With regret? Her tone was strange, and the way she  **looked** at him...

“Easy, Lolo,” his mother muttered, “You're okay.” 

Logan swallowed back the hum before it built any higher in pitch. It burned in his throat, like his legs burned with the need to move, to pace. 

He was tired. He wanted to go home. Wanted his room, his blanket and his stars and his cactus. 

“Friday is watering day,” he blurted, and trusted his mother would understand. 

“Mrs. Cohen...” Mrs. Watson said again, “It is my opinion that your son is a neutral.” 

There was a pause. A little half-moment lull. 

And then Logan's mother was turning to look at him again. This time familiarity did not make it easier to understand the widening of her eyes or way she covered her mouth with a hand. 

“Isla...” Mr. Ross was struggling to push back his chair in the cramped confined behind the desk. He held out a hand, palm down, as Logan had been taught to do when greeting their neighbor's nervous dog. “Now, Isla. You can always appeal...” 

“Oh, honey!” ...there were tears in her eyes. “Lolo, I'm so happy for you!” 

Ah. 

He recognized her expression now. Had seen it before. When his father finished a canvas, when his brother was accepted into law school.

  
Joy. Pride. 

She stood. “Can I hug you?” 

Logan tilted his head as he considered it. 

“No, thank you.” 

His mother nodded. Smiled wide and bright, and Logan wiggled with pleasure to see it. 

Mr. Ross sank slowly back into his chair. He looked...

Surprised? But there was something else there, frustration or annoyance or perhaps even anger. 

“As I'm sure you know, neutrals are quite rare,” Mrs. Watson said after Logan's mother had returned to her own seat. 

Less then .5 percent of the population, from his research. 

“That's my Lolo,” his mother said easily, “He's a treasure.” 

That was what his mother meant, when she said different. Unique. Special. Her own.

Never  _ wrong _ . 

“Did you suspect...?” Mrs. Watson asked. 

“Logan did.” 

How could he not? “It was a process of elimination,” he said, “I knew I did not possess the qualities inherent to the other classes.”

And that was what neutral meant, wasn't it? Not this, not that. Other. 

“And you agree with the assessment, Mrs. Cohen?” 

“Like I said...he would know.” His mother chuffed a laugh. “I'm not going to pretend to be surprised, though.”

He had shown her his findings. His father too, approaching them both with tablet in hand. “You know we aren't the ones who make the call,” his father had warned, “But if this is you....you know that's okay.” 

“I know,” Logan had answered, because that had always been their promise to him. It was always okay.  **He** was always okay. Okay to be who he was, whoever that turned out to be. 

“So, we're done here?” his mother asked. 

Mrs. Watson nodded. She was smiling...small, close-lipped, but to Logan it looked genuine enough. She stood and leaned over the desk to offer a hand to Logan's mother. “It was a pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Cohen, and it's encouraging to know that Logan has a strong support system,” she said, “I would suggest making an appointment with Mr. Ross to talk about Logan's senior year now that you know what careers would be suitable.” 

The handshake came to a rather abrupt stop. His mother released her grip slowly, crossing her arms over her chest and sighing loud. 

  
“Oh,” she said with clear disappointment. “And here I thought you were one of the good ones.” 

When the instructor made to respond Logan's mother held up a hand. “Do you know what I do for a living, Mrs. Watson?” She did not wait for an answer. “Construction. And no, not as a site nurse or in human resources. I wear a hard hat and drive nails. It's hard as hell, but I always liked working with my hands. 

“My son...” She glanced back at Logan. Smiled and winked again, laughing with him when he bounced “...will be whatever he wants to be. And I have no doubt he'll kick ass doing it.” 

She turned. Dismissing utterly Mrs. Watson's stuttered apology. Of course. She had never meant to imply...class didn't define..

And so forth and so on. Ignoring too Mr. Ross, who made a show of congratulating Logan on the class he had so helpfully tried to avoid labeling him as. 

“Come on, Lolo,” his mother sad, “Let's go home.” 

Yes. 

A good word. 

  
The  **best** word. 

* * *

“Are you up for seeing everyone tonight?” his mother asked on the drive, “It's okay if not. Either way we'll do quiet time first.” 

“Friday is watering day,” Logan said, because he was thinking of his cactus and his room. He was tired enough that it took him a moment to register the question. “Yes.” A pause. “No. Not everyone.” 

Because everyone was  **a lot. ** It meant his mother and father and brother. But also his mother's littles, his father's dom, his brother's caregiver. It meant uncles and aunts and cousins and  **their** littles, caregivers, doms, and subs. An interlaced network of people who Logan loved but sometimes had trouble tolerating on a calm day. 

  
Today had not been calm. 

“Maybe tomorrow,” he offered. 

It was customary, to have a gathering when one received their class. There would be gifts and toasts and cake (for the others...Logan preferred pie, and so there would be pie as well.) And he knew that they would be careful. They would not crowd him, would not demand handshakes or hugs or kisses on the cheek. They would not be offended if he needed to retreat upstairs or mock him if he lost his words. 

They were good people. There were just so  **many** of them. 

“Maybe next week,” he said. 

His mother laughed. “Yeah...I don't blame you for not wanting to face the mob.” They were pulling into their driveway. The neighbor's dog was in their front yard. Logan would water his cactus, then come outside to give Banner a treat (he was allowed two a day and only two.) “Lolo...I really am proud of you. We all are.” 

Logan hummed. “Yes,” he said, “I know.” 

* * *

A week later Logan sat in his spot the backyard. Tucked up against the house, in the shadowed space where the fence and the shed formed an alcove. It was a good place to observe from, to watch the others mill about and eat copious amount of barbecued chicken. 

Occasionally someone would approach. Never too many at one time, never too quickly. There would be greetings and well-wishes. But mostly Logan was left alone to watch, just as he liked. It was, he thought, a good party. 

It struck him then, watching them. 

Watching the doms mock fighting over rights to the grill. The subs hurrying to fetch plates. The caregivers milling nervously at the edge of the pool. The littles splashing about in their oversized floaties.

  
He was different.

Logan had known that, of course. Had always known that. 

This, though, was a different sort of different. 

He was the only neutral there. The only neutral in his family. At his school. He tried to imagine how it must feel, to act not on logic but instinct. Could not, and knew that they in turn could not imagine what it was like to be without those drives, those compulsions that were as old as the human race itself. 

He was different. Always had been. Always would be. 

And that was okay.  **He** was okay. 

...because he had also never been, and never would be, alone. 


End file.
